


On a Given Day (this is what passes for normal)

by irrelevant



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, Red Robin, robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic tag to Red Robin #12</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Given Day (this is what passes for normal)

Dick stands in Tim's doorway and watches him sleep.

There are words for this, he knows. Psychological concepts poked and prodded into neat phrases.

Role reversal fits like Nightwing's gauntlets fit Dick's hands, but psychological implications notwithstanding, Dick is going to go with creepy. It's his kind of descriptive, and ogling your sleeping sibling from his doorway qualifies, even when you know he has done and will probably do the same to you again in the near future.

To be fair, Dick's premise is about as solid as a drunk clown on a high wire. It would be more accurate to say that Tim is potentially pretending to be asleep while Dick is not _in_ the doorway, per se. Many truths are as flexible as Dick; it all depends on your angle.

Since Dick's angle isn't so much an angle as a whole body bend, his interpretation of variable one—Tim's current state of consciousness—could be written off as supposition based on biased observation, i.e. prior personal knowledge of the observed. Variable two—Dick's current physical position—is open to interpretation by a given observer.

One cape's truth is another meta's lie; or, Bruce Wayne's Paranoia At Work. Given that the given observer would in this case _be_ a cape, sticking to fact and leaving supposition to Oracle is less of a pain in the ass and an all round safer bet.

Fact, then, and it's a Joker joke on him that he has no idea if Bruce would approve. This is _Dick's_ angle. And Dick's fact, as seen from Dick's angle is: Tim's door is open.

Estimated length of the opening in question is two inches, more or less. On-the-fly precision measurement isn't Dick's area of expertise, with situational exceptions applying, e.g. ten point seven three centimeters worth of stretch needed to grasp the neck of a streetlight so as not to go splat on the sidewalk. Open doors are by nature less dicey (as long as they're not attached to dimensional doorways or Damian's room) and related measurement is therefore optional and better left to Tim and/or Bruce.

Fact the second, also as seen from Dick's angle: Dick, not Tim and/or Bruce, opened Tim's door a possible two inches exactly four minutes, thirteen seconds ago. Unlike Dick, Dick's chrono is precision-abled; it's the only thing he's absolutely sure of right now, the state of Tim's eyelids included.

Right now, four minutes and twenty-nine seconds after Dick cracked the door, Tim's eyes appear to be closed. Which means...

It could mean any number of things. In this family it doesn't pay to take anything as read, and in the interests of taking nothing as read, Dick moves on to fact number three, the as-viewed-from-Dick's-and-everybody-else's-angle truth being, Tim lies a lot.

Not only with his mouth.

For disambiguation see exhibit T via evidence file D, evidence file D being Dick's eye/brain connection and exhibit T being Tim's lack of eyelid movement, rapid or otherwise, when Dick opened the door five minutes and one second ago. Depending on where a sleeper is in their cycle, they may still respond without waking to outside stimulus: light, movement, noise. Tim, who is trained to register minute stimuli most non-metahumans _and_ metahumans wouldn't, didn't even twitch.

In conclusion, Dick is as much watched as he is watching. He can feel Tim staring at him. Possibly staring at him through his eyelids, because if anyone could train themselves to see through their eyelids it would be Dick's little—

"Wearing the cowl doesn't make you Bruce," Tim says. His eyes are still, for the intents and purposes of Dick's hypothesis, shut.

"Yes?" Dick says, feels like he's asking, and Jesus, this is weird. True, Batman is pretty much the anthropomorphic personification of weird, which just serves to outline in hot pink exclamation points the overall weirdness factor of Dick standing outside of Tim's room and making like Bruce did when _Dick_ first moved into the manor.

He wonders how (badwrong) strange this would look to that hypothetical caped observer. In the manor, the potential is for… more observers than Dick wants to think about, and there's nothing hypothetical about any of them.

Tim says, "Alfred didn't mention concussion. You know Damian is two doors that way, right?"

No and yes, and as Dick is in general a lot more proactive than he might seem at the moment, he takes the question for the invitation it could be but probably isn't. He tugs the door open wide enough to sidle through then shuts it behind him, shutting out everyone but Oracle (who has a feed in here somewhere) and Bruce (who has feeds in every room), which lowers the body count to one since Bruce isn't around, something that's got to change soon, damn it.

Babs… has seen Dick and Tim at their best, worst, and everywhere in between. She's had a feed in Bruce's room for years. If she's eavesdropping she knows what she's in for, and deserves everything she gets.

Dick waves in the ceiling's general direction—hedging his bets—and flips himself onto his hands, narrowly avoiding Tim's backpack and the pile of civvies Steph flung through the door when they moved Tim into the main house.

Tim doesn't react, the faker. He's ignoring Dick, and if he isn't, he's doing a good job of making it look like he is. Dick walks himself around a stray sneaker that wouldn't have dared to be sitting in the middle of the floor if Tim was one-hundred percent functional, and considers his options, also known as Tim's furniture.

By Wayne standards, Tim's room has always has been minimalist, but there are two available chairs, tucked under the desk and on the far side of the bed. The one beside the bed looks halfway comfortable. Dick ignores both of them in favor of vaulting onto the bed, nudging Tim's feet apart and sitting cross-legged between them.

The bed shakes under his landing. So does Tim. Dick props his elbows on his knees and says, "So, you and Rose. More in common than a mutual talent for bringing the smackdown?"

He grins, and Tim—whose eyes are now definitely open—stares.

It's your typical Tim response. He's had an A-list creepy stare as long as Dick's known him; he hypnotizes you, makes it so you can't look away from his eyes… and manages to move before Dick sees him move, pushing himself up until he's balanced on his good hand and still staring at Dick. He says, "Rose? That doesn't—"

Dick watches him swallow whatever else he was going to say; watches him fold his mouth up and shut his face all the way down.

Dick eyes the careful cradle of Tim's hurt arm, the vulnerable, downward slant of his neck. He rubs his palms in loose circles around the bedspread. It's soft, the kind of softness that comes with age and wear—it might be one of Tim's from before. It might be… someone else's. They're all recyclers around here: blankets, batarangs, better-left-alone identities…

Short-short shorts, too, but only under certain conditions. Younger brothers have it—not easy. Never easy, not in this house, but maybe easi_er_?

Warmer?

Maybe not.

He leans forward, extending his arms and his area of influence, and the heel of his hand butts up against an unseen obstruction. He tugs on the spread and the heavy fabric catches. Beneath the blankets, Tim's foot twitches.

Dick shifts some of his weight off the covers, tugs and shoves at the blanket until it gives ground and he can see. Exposes Tim's skin to whoever might be looking; curls his index finger around Tim's big toe and rubs his thumb back and forth against the ball of Tim's foot; one phalanx, two phalanx, three phalanx, four—

"She can see the future," Dick intones sepulchrally. He says in his normal voice, "You let Ra's put you through a window because knew I was going to catch you, right?" Tim gives him a look. Dick holds out his free hand. "I call it like I see it."

Tim stifles a noise that sounds like—is that actual frustration? He says, "Dick," and he flops back down. His bandages trap him, wrap him up tight in white ribbons. Nobody's gift, he tells the ceiling, "It's late."

"Early, if we're getting technical, and you weren't sleeping. Why not?" He digs his knuckle into Tim's instep and gets a full-body shiver out of it.

"Quit it." Tim is still talking to the ceiling. It can't answer back.

"Make me," Dick says for it, and wow, can this get any more juvenile?

Tim must not think so. "That was low, even for you."

"_Even_ for me? By what standard of comparison? If you say Jason, I'm going to need to hurt you."

Tim snorts. "Someone beat you to it."

"That," he knuckles his way down Tim's arch, "is my point." He wraps all ten fingers around Tim's ankle and heel and _works_.

Tim's mouth drops open. A quiet moan falls out. Dick's brain informs him that if Tim didn't like him he'd be dead or in a lot of pain; reminds him that Tim is letting Dick touch, letting Dick hear him.

Dick's self-preservation instincts are firing on all cylinders: he'd like to know why he has a green light when he normally stalls out at the four-way stop.

"What the fuck—" he circles his thumb, testing, prodding— "were you thinking?"

"Generally? Don't stop, that's… I—I thought… everyone was safe. Specifically… Bruce. Isn't coming… home to. Chaos."

"I should be—no. I _am_ pissed at you."

"It's—it's mutual… believe, uhn—" Tim moans again, possibly because Dick just switched feet and dug in again.

The blankets are where Dick shoved them, bunched up around Tim's waist. Tim fights them, pushes them the rest of the way off until he's bare everywhere his boxers aren't: skin and bandages and jagged chasms of lies too close to their inceptions for forgetting. Too close to tearing open, spilling new blood over old truths Tim won't let Dick acknowledge.

Dick drags his hands up the insides of Tim's thighs where there are fewer scars and fine hair and so much warm Timmy skin. He tests his boundaries and the worn cotton hems of Tim's boxers, pricks with his nails, deep enough to feel Tim's flinch. Keeps going up, splaying his fingers, hovering them an imprecise centimeter away from the deep, angry mark on Tim's abdomen.

"How many new ones since you left? Two, not counting tonight? More?"

"Need to know," Tim says. He's looking at Dick. Shivers ripple up and down him under Dick's hands, but his eyes are perfectly, carefully blank. "You don't."

"You're not Bruce, either," Dick says, because if he's sure of anything, it's that; Robin and Nightwing everywhere it matters, no matter what else they have to call themselves.

Tim's skin feels like the only thing that matters, smooth and shivery under Dick's thumbs, ridged damage held in by his palms. Soft everywhere Dick's touching him. Sure thing.

Not even close.

Dick makes himself stop touching, pushes up onto his hands and knees. He crawls up Tim, trailing easy fingers over bandages and tired muscle, and sprawls himself out over him.

Owns his selfishness, because it must be selfish to push his brother's hurt down with his own weight and lay his arms the length of Tim's arms; wriggle his fingers in between Tim's fingers. He spreads them wide, and Tim spreads his fingers and his legs, holds himself relaxed and open, accepting of Dick.

He shows his appreciation the best way he knows how, saying, "Um, better," and nuzzling his face into the side of Tim's neck.

Tim's skin is sweaty and when Dick kisses his neck, openmouthed, he tastes like two days' worth of smoke and grime and exertion. He smells a little like antiseptic gel and a lot like he could use a shower, but he also smells like Dick's little brother and Dick's not complaining at all.

Muffled by Dick and the pillow, Tim says, "Are you going to stay there all night?" He twitches like he's having trouble staying still; his thighs tighten around Dick's hips. "I don't mind sharing, I just like breathing, and you're heavier than you look."

"Wimp," he mumbles against Tim's neck and stays where he is, limp and selfish and getting another nuzzle, another salt-gritty lick in while he's at it. Under him, against him everywhere, Tim goes still.

Dick is king of the possums and the happily self-deluded. He waits, and the slow uncoil of Tim beneath him is gradual and mechanical: forced.

Tim says, "I outwit Ra's al Ghul and now I'm a wimp."

And Dick… really should know these things.

He should, because when Tim forces anything, when he follows it up with sarcasm, nine times out of ten the result is bad for someone who isn't Tim.

It's been months since he's been around Tim for any length of time. He's forgotten how this—how _they_ work. And of course Tim does something fast and sneaky and Tim-like, and of course Dick isn't ready for it. The sheer number of bad guys gunning for Batman since he took the cowl has done amazing things for already excellent reflexes, but Tim isn't a bad guy and Dick is wearing jeans and nothing else, and it hurts when he hits the floor.

He blinks at the ceiling while his brain reverbs in his ears. His tailbone throbs. And… okay.

Okay.

He says, "Ow," and oh little _brother_, Tim leans over the edge of the bed.

"How's that moral high ground holding up? Care to make a retraction?"

"Let me think," Dick says, then, "No, I'm sticking," and he's got Tim in a headlock.

"Dick, _shoulder_—"

Dick would like to make a stupidity retraction. He says, "God, I'm sorry," and means it. Loosens his grip, and—

He just screwed himself. Those seconds are nonrefundable and Tim is straddling him, forcing his chin up with the wrist of his unwounded arm. Digging a hole in his sternum with his other elbow, and Tim is laughing, soundless, hot puffs of breath against Dick's skin. "Say it."

"Been… hanging around—" He sucks air, caught between his own loud laughter and pain; Tim's elbows are as good as batarangs. "Hanging with Superdork much?" he gets out, and gets jabbed again. "Who are you and what did you do with my nice little brother?"

He has two free hands. He could do _something_ about this, but he's hamstrung by all the damage Tim won't cop to.

Somebody has to be the adult here. He doesn't want it to be Tim. Mini-Super and the littlest Flash must've loved the way Tim's always had the adult parts covered. With no bad guys to fight and Dick at his mercy, his smirk is fading. His head is cocked to one side, eyes distant like he could be anywhere thinking about anything.

"Your imagination is impressively terrifying," he says, and his smile belongs to the boy whose mom should still be bumming around the world like an archaeological transient. He squeezes Dick's bruised ribs with his knees and Dick's next breath wheezes out.

The wheezing has less to do with the squeeze than the smile.

"I," Tim continues, "save nice for victims, jumpers and people who deserve nice. My other big brother taught me that." Still squeezing, still smiling like the scary little sociopath he is. "All of us had the same drill instructor, remember? Say. It."

Dick coughs. "I love you," he manages, "but you are a total freak. Wait, don't—"

Tim crooks his fingers and Dick needs to laugh more than he wants to breathe. Tim's skin is living magnetism to his metal palms, but if he doesn't get some serious air soon, asphyxiation and he will be on a first name basis.

Tim makes his Tim-is-amused noise. Dick gasps, "I take it back, Jesus, uncle," and almost chokes on the sudden rush of oxygen into his starved airways.

He lies on the floor and breathes, light enough to float. Tim isn't on top of him anymore. Tim is standing over him, the long of him going up, all the way up to eyes Dick can't separate from patchwork darkness.

"Come back down here," Dick's mouth says without the intervention of his brain. Up where Tim's hair is the shadow hiding most of his face, there is a smirk.

"No," and god, his _mouth_, rounded out for that ohhh— "You come over here." The bed squeaks under his weight, but he's not lying down. Not yet.

He's sitting close enough for Dick to see sparse, dark hair and the high arches of his feet. Dick wraps his hand around Tim's ankle. "I really, really missed you." Tim has to understand this. Dick needs him to understand. "Not Robin. You. Tim, I missed you."

Tim's pulse beats steady under his fingers. "I think we've established that."

"Yeah. Just. Stop baiting megalomaniac psychos, okay?" Even covered in area rugs, hardwood floors are not good for spines. Dick squirms, trying to find a more comfortable position. He rubs his thumb around and around the prominent bump of Tim's talus.

Tim says, "I will if you will." He says, "Dick."

"Mn?"

"You staking out my floor?"

"Mm-hmn." Creaking, but not crickets; the house is settling into its new foundations. As long as he stays still and keeps his eyes closed, Dick can hear Tim's breathing. It's a steady, satisfying sound, even when the slow exhalations break up around what sounds like exasperation.

"Dick," Tim says again.

"Little brother."

"Get up here."

Eyes still closed, Dick tightens his hand around Tim's ankle. He gets up there.

\--

He wakes up with his face melting away in the sun and Tim's skin warm and sweat-stuck to what's left of his own skin. He moans, "Turn it off," and buries his burning face in the back of Tim's cool neck, and Steph says, "Rise and shine. Alfred says yes, you have to. Also, Babs says now."

Tim says, without rolling over or giving any indication that he's even awake, "Does this have something to do with Vale's article?"

Steph cackles. It is an evil cackle. Dick knows this because cackles are, by definition, evil, and so is Steph. He mumbles, "I didn't eat her gingerbread, don't let her put me in the oven," into Tim's neck, and Tim's silent amusement vibrates the bed, Dick, the air Dick pulls into his lungs.

Dick bites gently down on Tim's nape. Tim makes a _noise_. Steph says, "Don't mind me, I'm just going to stand over here with my awesome new cell that absolutely does not have a camera. Did I mention the amazing resolution?"

Tim vibrates harder.

Dick knows he's whining, but he can't seem to stop. "Kids these days, no respect for privacy, no shame—"

Tim elbows him just shy of his bruised ribs and he rolls away, breathless with impact and laughter. He keeps rolling, sitting up in time to catch Steph's eye roll.

She says, "Please, I've already seen your all. Timmy, boyfriend, what are you thinking?"

Dick lunges for her; she sidesteps him easily and he's in a heap on the floor for the second time in twenty-four hours. On the bed, Tim is _shaking_.

Steph stands over him, smug in her victory. "Move your ridiculously fine butt or I sic the littlest demon of them all on you. Alfred wants to get Tim moved before the jackals starting coming around."

"Yeth, Mithtreth. You're the Mithtreth, Mithtreth," Dick says. He picks himself up with as little dignity as possible and moves his reportedly fine, briefs-covered butt in the direction of the attached bath while Steph catcalls and Tim… Dick stops in the bathroom doorway and looks back.

Tim is sitting up, massaging the wrist of his damaged arm. His cheek is sleep-creased and his hair is a bird's nest, and if Steph wasn't in the room Dick would go back over there and mess it up some more.

Steph does it for him.

Tim ducks her hand when she goes in for a second ruffle. "Stop it." He catches her wrist and she shrieks and goes down fighting.

Dick watches them wrestle for a while, he listens to their laughter and wonders if Alfred can hear it. If Babs can. He scratches absently at his abdomen, dragging his nails through dried sweat and gluey dust-film from the floor.

He can smell himself, sun-warmed and sour. His skin is expired and ready to peel away, cool hydration behind him and Tim, laughing, in front of him.

Timmy is in excellent hands. Dick goes to take his shower.


End file.
